Don't Tell Her
by Peahopeless
Summary: With Evey waiting just beyond the Gallery, V makes his final preparations for the confrontation with Creedy and his men. This story is from early in the PEAhopeless timeline and was writen on request.


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Don't Tell Her 

**Special notes:** This was a request from steerpikesister (who started the livejournal board), so this one's for her. Her request was to see the scene, during the movie, where V took the breastplate from the suit of armor, to wear against Creedy' bullets. So this is my attempt at fulfilling that request. Also, "Mondego" is of course the character in Monte Cristo that Dantes was fighting. During V's practice sparring session, recall that he refers to the suit of armor as "Mondego". 

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"Defenseless" by Wednesday42. Click to enlarge.

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Time was getting on. Down in the Shadow Gallery, as well as in the world above. The city was waiting ... so was Creedy ... and V worked as diligently as he could, faithfully performing yet another unenjoyable task. 

A clank, as the masked man dropped his pliers to the hard, stone floor. Then he stood back ... pensively ... taking in his fat metal friend for one final farewell. 

The last of the rivets were loosened -- those that held the breastplate in place. All but two had been removed the night before ... and that was where he had stopped. 

Why? He wasn't certain. 

Fear? 

No. At least not in the way most men would feel. The minor act of dying was nothing compared to the fruition of twenty years spent planning and strategizing. Justice was about to be had, and he would apologize to no one for that. Not himself. Not even Evey. And besides, who was to say what her opinion of 'justice' might be, or how his own fate would be meted out if left in her hands. What was the proper protocol regarding monsters and justice? 

No. At heart, 'fear' was really nothing more than apprehension of the unknown, and there was nothing left to chance anymore. He knew exactly at whose hands the end would come. He knew how, and he even knew a rough approximation of when. Soon ... soon ... he would finally be able to rest. Not just his body, but his mind as well -- -- in whatever might come beyond this world. Was it safe to begin relaxing into that relief? At least mentally? 

That was the only apprehension he felt. That was the only part he had difficulty accepting -- -- the belief that peace might finally be at hand. And that was probably why he had not removed these last two rivets twenty-four hours ago. Had he done so, he might have begun to feel the relief ... and there was still far too much that needed to be accomplished first. 

Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear his mind. Focus ... that was what he would require tonight. Focus. 

"Do you think you shall ever claim victory, Mondego?" he asked the suit of armor. Then he paused, cocking his head as if pretending to listen. One last whimsy, on this one last night. 

"Dantes must win," he soothed the silent knight, just as one might explain something sorrowful to a child. The metal helmet revealed no more outright emotion than the Fawkesian mask did ... but somehow, at the mention of its own predestined defeat, the knight seemed a little sadder. Did it know that V was correct? Was it even commiserating with the masked human? 

"Justice must come, and Dantes must win." ... He reached forward, prying out the first of those two rivets with his gloved fingers. ... "And even this sturdy breastplate you sport, would bring you no reprieve. But it might for me. -- -- Just long enough to bear what comes." 

The rivet was dropped to the floor -- casually, as he knew he would not be the one to clean it up -- and he glanced at the wall clock. It was a subconscious delay tactic. Not to put off his own fate, but perhaps to slow the moment he would have to say the last goodbye to Evey as well. Each step led to the next, did it not? 

... ... Dear Evey. ... ... 

She was waiting for him at the lift. The same lift that had once carried them to her moment of rebirth, would now deliver them to the next step in his demise. He would give her a gift. His gift to all of England, in a way, leaving justice as his one true gift to himself. 

He still could not quite believe she'd come back. Even now, he almost wished she would call out to him, questioning where he was. It would prove that the last hour of dancing with the girl had not been a mere folly of imagination. The brain can play tricks on you, when under such stress. 

On the other hand though, there were certain things she should not see. -- -- This act of last minute preparation being one of them. 

A truce was finally forming between the two of them. Maybe even a little trust. ... ... Maybe even something of a finer, more tender nature, if her behavior during their dance was any indication. There was a new undertone in that feminine voice he remembered so well. Something new in her hands as well ... ... silent, subtle touches that she had offered with neither repulsion nor the taint of bitterness. Other touches that she had likewise received, without the slightest hint of offense or unease. 

Maybe it was forgiveness. 

Or perhaps it was something even more heartfelt. 

Either way -- whatever the motivation -- it was far too late to reach fruition. And the memory she would be left with should not be marred by her witnessing his current task. 

Ironic, wasn't it? After twenty years of single-minded resolve -- -- twenty years of fighting against, then forcing, then finally accepting the knowledge of how this must end -- -- he was suddenly experiencing a kernel of optimism. The fleeting wonder and anticipation of 'what if?' And in an area that had absolutely nothing to do with his primary focus in life. 

Which muse? ... Which harbinger of fate thought it oh-so-comical to let him experience the singular spark of hope that always accompanies love -- -- now, when he could no longer pursue nor accept it? 

He loved her. It wasn't a fanciful thought. It wasn't dreamed or imagined. It was simply a truth, like all the other truths he'd learned to accept. But why now? At a time when even she did not have the power to stop him? 

... ... 

Another deep inhalation, as he tried to purge those thoughts from his mind. Then he reached out, removing the second rivet and letting the heavy metal breastplate fall forward into his hands. 

"Alas, your sparring practice will require a new partner," V tried to joke, the pathetic attempt at cheerfulness fooling not even himself. "Perhaps one of even higher caliber. ... ... You've improved, old friend. And I'm afraid I shall need to borrow this for the night." 

He held the plate up, first toward its previous owner, then pressed it lightly atop his own black tunic. Yes, it would fit quite well. Meanwhile, the man of armor was left defenseless. More than defenseless ... a gaping hole where a brave heart should have been. It would be a horrible state in which to be found, but alas, that was the metal man's fate. 

And there came Evey, back into V's thoughts. ... ... She would be the one to find this suit of armor. She would be the one to find everything down here. And she would never know the thoughts going through V's mind as he left the Gallery for the last time. 

His demeanor fell ... his entire body sagging under the weight of what he was doing. What he would soon have to do. 

"Don't tell her," he asked mournfully of his old metal friend. "When she arrives ... ... when I am no longer here ... ... don't tell her that I knew how the end would come. Allow her to believe that I borrowed your armor with hope. That there was hope. Let her memories remain as innocent and unsullied as possible." 

... ... The armor said nothing, merely staring calmly as it listened. 

"When she comes to you," V continued, his voice dropping to nearly hoarse. He had long expected this to be a bittersweet, albeit one-sided, conversation. But until now, he'd never realized how deeply painful the loss of all those 'what ifs' could be. ... ... "If she grieves ... if she is the only one who grieves ... ... see to it that she does not grieve too long." 

... ... And still ... that metal helmet gave away no more than Fawkes's grin. 

One last time, V reached forward. One more adjustment of the sword to ensure that it was positioned properly. ... Perfect. Dignified and prepared. The sturdy knight had his task, and would see it through -- -- just as V would also do. 

Shifting the breastplate, he began loosening his tunic. 

Time was getting on. 


End file.
